Frank and Quinton had more room in their hearts

When our dog Frank died, we both thought that our ability to love like that went with him.

We had told each other that we’d wait to adopt another dog – that we’d comfort ourselves by doing the things we’d thought about doing while we had him, that we’d travel, enjoy dog hair-free couches, come and go without having anyone but each other to take care of.

We planned to wait a year. We made it about six weeks.

After a few weeks of looking, we noticed a little brown dog named Quinn. He was the right age, the right size, the right amount of hound. But his description said he had to go to an all-female home because he was terrified of men, so we skipped over Quinn for a week or so. Something kept pulling us back. I sent an email to the rescue group.

Puppies don’t know anything about life, but an adult rescue has seen a lot and is probably more wizened and world-weary than most people. When you adopt a rescue, especially one with a history of abuse and neglect, you make a promise that you’ll spend every day he’s with you making up for every painful, hungry, thirsty, sad, scary, lonely moment he endured, and that all he’ll know in his life with you are love and kindness.

When Gayle pulled up to our house, Quinn crouched nervously in a travel crate . We welcomed them inside, and Quinn explored the house. We took him for a walk in the park, just Bill and me. He was a good boy, a good little walker. I could see from the way Bill held the leash that he was happy.

“I think this is our dog, Babe,” I said, about 30 yards out.

“I think so, too.”

Though Quinn was still a stranger to us, we knew his name didn’t fit. It was too soft, and he was sharp. Sharp edged, sharp eyed, angular, almost foxy. So we tacked on a syllable and he became Quinton, a dignified little man.

Quinton’s fur wasn’t pleasant to look at or touch. He cowered from petting.

Over time, his fur cleared, and the quirky Quintonian bald spots filled in.

Other parts of Quinton started to fill out with new softness. He stopped cowering, let us hold him and kiss his face. When we tell him we love him, he emits a sigh that sounds an awful lot like a contented “I’m home.”

In the first few months we had Quinton, I worried that I’d never love him the way we loved Frank. I didn’t want to love him deeply because I was sure it would be some sort of betrayal of the bond we had with our first, beloved boy.

But I was wrong. Somewhere along the line we fell in love with Quinton. We let ourselves do it. It was a relief, a new joy, our family.